


in sickness and in health

by thefudge



Category: Original Work
Genre: (more like trapped together), Banter, COVID19, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Living Together, Marriage of Convenience, Pandemics, ost: doris day - dream a little dream of me (yes i am THAT thot), ost: tove lo - moments, romcom shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23918164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: When Clem's gold-digging husband decides to quarantine with her, their marriage of convenience is tested by the worst thing ever. Actual feelings.
Relationships: Husband/Wife - Relationship, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, husband who only married her for money/wife who only needed him out her way, peter/clementine
Comments: 30
Kudos: 35





	in sickness and in health

**Author's Note:**

> yet ANOTHER story no one wanted or requested, except meeeeeee. my utter self-indulgence seems to be the leitmotif of the pandemic. but...i am a mere mortal, and so...here you go. remember that post on tumblr where the guy holds a weird-looking doll (or was it a baby??) and the caption says "fanfic writers and their uber-specific obsessions they try to force on you"? ...yeah. hope you enjoy! and stay safe pls!

"get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee."

william shakespeare - _all's well that ends well_

***

When Clem clapped eyes on him at 7 AM on a Saturday morning she thought he must be the delivery man for a late online shopping spree she had no memory of. But no, no delivery man dressed like _that_.

When she finally rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she realized that it was not a stranger. It was her husband.

Peter strolled right in, dragging three suitcases. 

“Hello darling, sorry for waking you.”

Clem was, as always, at a disadvantage with her ratty pajamas and unwashed hair. James, despite presumably having got off a plane, smelled like a _Florence + the Machine_ live session in someone’s rose garden.

He removed his Burberry coat and placed it neatly on a chair in the living area which sported the forensic evidence of a massive takeout carnage: deformed boxes and greasy cardboard containers and all sorts of unidentifiable liquid masses in between. She had meant to clean it up on Sunday, she really had.

Peter tutted. “You really have to stop living like this, love.”

Clem wondered what she should do first; shower and brush her teeth, or grab a garbage bag and stuff all the junk inside. She decided to do neither since this was primarily _her_ apartment. Peter had his own homes, _plural_. He could find plenty of clean surfaces and fresh laundry there.

“Don’t you have a housekeeper or something?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves. His watch was expensive enough to look inexpensive. Good taste rolled off him like sweat. He smiled at her, expecting an answer.

“There’s a woman – Eileen – who cleans up once a month, but I obviously haven’t rung her up because… y’know.”

He knew. Everyone knew. There was a worldwide pandemic happening, even though Peter looked none the worse for it.

“Once a _month_? That’s not ideal.” 

“I usually clean most of it anyway. I just haven't felt up to it,” Clem muttered, feeling more and more aggrieved at his sudden, guilt-inducing appearance.

“Well, that’s all right. You’ll have some help with me here,” he said, walking towards the kitchen.

Clem felt a dull throb in the center of her forehead. She was almost tempted to go back to bed and hope he’d be gone by the time she woke up – that was usually the tempo of their relationship - but she had a bad feeling about the timing of his visit.

She followed him.

“Why are you here, Peter?”

He was inspecting her fridge critically.

“What do you think? I’m quarantining with you.”

Clem watched him take out plates of moldering food and setting them gingerly on a sideboard.

“You’re…what? Why?”

Peter frowned as he fished out a half-eaten pineapple whose golden pulp had turned into a brown corpse. “Honestly, Clementine, you’re like a child.”

The use of her full name did not detract her.

“What’s this about, Peter? Are you – are you in trouble or something?”

He flashed her an easy smile. “Wouldn’t need to come here if I was.”

She didn’t know how to qualify that statement. She folded her arms. “Do you need more money then?”

“God, no. I’m practically stuffed with it,” he murmured, weighing up a jar filled with a strange assortment of pickled vegetables.

“That’s Eileen’s,” Clem mentioned, wishing he’d stop pottering.

“Anyway, can’t I come see you unless it’s about money?” he teased.

Clem suppressed a yawn. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d talked this much. “You can, I guess…but you usually don’t.” 

“Well, I thought I’d rectify that, what with current world events. Lots of people are trying to be with their loved ones, you know. Family is important right now.”

Clem made a face like she'd sucked on raw lemon. “Loved ones.”

Peter shrugged. “That’s what they call them. Okay, we’re not exactly _crazy_ about each other, but I thought it’d be nice. We don't have much in the way of family, do we?"

That much was true, but Clem wasn't convinced. 

She squinted. “You own at least one house with a polo field. All I have here is a tiny balcony.”

Her husband brightened. “If you want, we can relocate to one of those.”

Clem shook her head quickly. “I’m good here.”

“Then I’ll make do here as well.”

"You'll _make do_?"

She watched him stroll back into the living area. He rolled his suitcases down the hallway towards her room.

Clem was getting tired of following him. “So wait, this is about not being _alone_? I’m sure you have friends or girlfriends for this sort of thing.”

Peter paused in the doorway with a small sigh. “Katrina left me.”

 _Bingo_. She knew it. She knew there had to be more to this than just "family". He was sad about having been dumped and needed a place to lick his wounds.

“Sorry about that, but…shacking up with your wife is not the best idea, you know.”

“Nonsense, it’s a great idea,” he said, walking into her bedroom. “My God, Clem, how can you sleep in here?”

Clementine heaved a drawn-out sigh.

This was going to be painful.

Clem knew she was very lucky. The kind of “lucky” that made her both pitiable and loathsome. She had inherited enough money that she did not need to work a day in her life, though she gladly did. She was the kind of rich who did not show off her baubles precisely because she could afford them and, therefore, they were nothing special. She’d worn the same jacket since 2006 because it had enough pockets for all her gadgets and it matched the rest of her off-putting wardrobe (to say that she owned only one pair of rhinestone jeans would be a bald-faced lie). She was, in other words, a “frumpy rich”, the most elusive kind; the kind who didn’t show up in the news, who didn’t flaunt their wealth because they were so inured to it, the kind who stayed hidden on a private island and then turned out to have been embroiled in massive financial scams. Okay, scratch that last part. Nothing as exciting would happen to her. The most interesting thing about her, actually, was Peter.

Peter was her family’s fault, though she took full responsibility for him.

As an heiress, Clem had been given a choice: stay single and get none of Granddad’s pharmaceutical empire money, or marry and get all of it. Granddad was old-fashioned like that. For a while she had considered just staying single and living on her hobby as a freelance data analyst. But the problem was Granddad had no contingency plans, like leaving all his money to charity. Instead, due to some corporate loopholes, all the money would go to _other_ pharmaceutical companies he’d partnered with and which, Clem was pretty sure, were responsible for killing more diabetes patients than diabetes itself. In the interest of not being morally reprehensible, Clem decided to give marriage a try. Her mother and aunt had already settled on a list of “top notch” candidates from “good families” who vowed to love and protect her, but Clem thought that vowing to love and protect someone you didn't know was pretty "gross". She knew from browsing the list that these men would definitely pester her, or worse, pretend to like her.

So, she decided to prowl the financial district for hungry bottom feeders who had pictures of yachts for their desktops and had read Robert Greene’s _The 48 Laws of Power_ from front to back. After weeks of searching she finally found Peter. What made him the obvious choice was his absolute disdain for modest living. He required the best of the best in terms of clothes, cars and women, despite his limited set of skills. Said skills included extremely good looks and enough lazy, bon-vivant charm to make even Bertie Wooster blush. She’d done enough research to find out he had been “kept” by various rich older women in the past. So what if she was younger? He was pretty perfect; a refined asshole who would spend her money without bothering her. She could allocate him a stipend each month and not have to worry about married life.

When Clem finally bit the bullet and slid into his booth wearing her pristine 2006 jacket and rhinestone jeans he wrinkled his nose and politely told her he was not interested in whatever tree-hugging cause she was peddling.

Clem smiled. _Bingo_.

“You like money, right?” she asked, pushing a card across the table like a truculent detective in a noir film. "I imagine you like it a lot." 

Peter barely deigned to look down at it. 

“Excuse me?”

“I’d like to offer you a deal.”

He regarded her critically. He did not seem to approve at all. “Sorry, darling, but I don’t think you can afford me.”

Clem’s smile widened. She really had hit the jackpot.

She dropped her last name casually into conversation. 

His lips twitched, but that was the only sign of discomfiture he gave. He picked up the card, twirled it between his fingers. Someone like him could smell fresh blood a mile away.

“Say I believe you, what exactly do you have in mind?”

They were married in two weeks in a quiet ceremony with a handful of family members in attendance. After that, Peter was allowed to go off and celebrate in style in Mallorca on her dime. Clem went back to her apartment. All was well.

There was only one rather interesting scene right after the wedding, when he thought she would actually _join_ him in Mallorca. She could tell the prospect did _not_ please him, but in the spirit of their arrangement, he was ready to “put up” with her. She had “bought” him, after all.

“Only fair to get your money’s worth,” he quipped, unashamed, as he untied his cravat, fresh from the registry office. The prenup she had made him sign was more than generous in its stipulations. 

Clem laughed. She felt no different as a married woman. “Thanks, but no thanks. That’s not really my scene. You have fun. You don’t even have to send me postcards. Just keep me updated via email on your expenses.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s…one way to do it.” He was suspicious. This must be some kind of trick. The extremely wealthy always had some perversion in mind. That was why he kept unbuttoning his shirt. He was ready to do his “part”, for what was worth.

Clem felt a little sad. She went up to him and took his hands in hers, effectively stopping him. “Peter, you don’t have to do that, ever. I didn’t “buy” you for that. You've already helped me a lot. I just need you to keep partying like there’s no tomorrow and leave me alone. Okay?”

She kissed his cheek and left the room, and that was that.

If Peter was surprised by her unorthodox approach he got over it very quickly.

He was good as gold. In fact, he was perfectly happy to follow her directive and only check in now and again. He gave her almost no trouble for six full years.

Now, a worldwide pandemic had gone and fucked it up. 

Clem’s apartment was by no means small, but she could tell there wouldn’t be enough room for Peter’s “personality”.

The more he saw of her living arrangements, the more appalled he became.

He made short work of her wardrobe and closets, inserting himself in her private space like a scandalized fashion guru on a reality TV show. In a bid to find empty shelves for himself he discovered more of her “mind-boggling” outfits. Obviously, he could not let this stand. He made a big pile of clothes that, in his words, she ought to “simply burn”.

“Don’t even bother donating them. The needy have suffered enough.”

Clem sat on the edge of the queen size bed. It was just past eight o’clock and he was already getting rid of half her things. She rubbed at her temples. “Can you leave my clothes alone? You _just_ got here.”

“Why do you still need this moth-eaten hoodie?” he demanded, holding the offending article in one hand. “They even spelled _Nirvana_ wrong.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“Comfort should _not_ be your only standard.”

“Okay, Miss Manners.”

“I’m serious, Clem –”

“I think you’re going through some kind of post break-up crisis,” she said yawning. “That or I’m having a really weird nightmare.”

Peter stood up, hands on his waist.

“Are you going to take a shower and put on some decent clothes already?”

“Well, you’re throwing away all my decent clothes.”

Peter shook his head. “Honestly, it’s a godsend I’m here.”

Clem made a face. She was about to say he was less of a godsend and more of a Mary Poppins on steroids, but she decided to be the bigger person. She had no idea where this concern was coming from. Maybe it was his way of coping. 

“Maybe you should…take a break. Lie down on the couch. Have a drink. Call Katrina a bitch, or something.”

“I’m quite over Katrina,” he drawled. “What I can’t get over is the way you live here.”

Clem groaned. She let herself fall back on the bed. Closed her eyes. Pretended she was still all by herself.

Peter loomed large on the horizon. He looked down at her, hands folded, expression arch. He was almost cute in his anal retentiveness.

“Don’t get too comfortable. We’re going shopping. You’re out of actual food, or do you survive on jelly beans and Nutella?”

“Most days, yeah.”

Peter opened his mouth, thought better of it, closed it.

He marched out of the room.

A few moments later, she heard the shower running. She could hear him criticizing her cheap brand of shampoo and lack of conditioner. 

“Well, what are you waiting for, a private invitation?” he called from the bathroom.

Clem searched the bedside table. She was contemplating grabbing the lamp and hitting him with it.

Two hours of her husband’s _delightful_ presence and already she wanted to commit violence.

 _Huh_ , she thought. So this was married life.

She reluctantly got up and trudged to the bathroom.

Obviously, people had bigger problems in the world right now, but at that moment, she couldn’t think of any. 


End file.
